Episodes

  • Witness Notes 6

    Witness Notes 6
    Feb 3 2026
    (After you have read these introductory paragraphs once, you can skip to the new/old content below. If you are listening, then the time stamp is around the two minute 45 second mark.)IntroductionThe word settled, to me, carries connotations I am keen to avoid. I have never felt settled or, perhaps, I cannot recall a time I felt settled. I do not feel settled now, writing this, and I’ve lived in the same house for three and a half years. Without even discussing the obvious issues of colonisation, I just don’t feel like I could, or should, settle; better to keep my constituent parts shook up, agitated perhaps, rather than separating and stagnant.Instead, I feel as though I have been travelling for years, maybe because I have not lived in my ‘home’ nation of Scotland for eight and a half years, perhaps because I know I won’t stay here forever, or maybe because I carry that concept of home in a way which differs from many?More precisely, I still think of myself as a slow traveller, globally feral. Recently, I have been revisiting places through the photographs and words I recorded when my feet crossed their soil. This is a way of reminding myself of where I have been, not just in space and time, but in mind, too. It is a wonderful thing, to come out of a low and rediscover myself through words I crafted, through the lens of a camera, when memory has wandered in the fog for too long. Thank you, past me.When I first started sharing letters with the world in this fashion, six or more years ago, I usually began them with a vignette of where I was, a sort-of travel diary, mixed with nature observation, locking in the setting for the reader, before I spoke of other things—and, by so doing, ensuring that place fed into the whole. It was a useful device, for reader and myself both but, as these letters were sent to so few readers, and now languish archived behind a paywall, I thought it a shame not to share these snippets again.As such, I am going to share a short series of these sketches, accompanied by a photograph from that time, sent to you in date order.I shall include the above paragraphs in each of the letters in this series, but I shall also include a link at the very start, so you can skip ahead once you are familiar with the above words. If you are listening and similarly want to skip, then the timestamp you want to navigate to will be in the same place.Taken without these paragraphs, each is a short read, and I hope you enjoy them.Cercal, Alentejo, Portugal. May 2020We live around 12 kilometres, or 7.5 miles, from the ocean. Here, as I have mentioned, the ground begins to fold and hills rise around us, stretching above crinkled, complicated valleys, all the way down to the Serra de Monchique.Hills to the south, rolling cork oak pastureland and fields to the east, plains all the way north, and the vast, roiling waters of the Atlantic to the west.There are mornings where a fresh wind from the west brings the scent of the sea; hike to the crest of the first hills in that direction and you can see the haze of salt spray spreading out below you, all the way to the coast. It is barely a stretch of the imagination to imagine a 16th century farmer watching as Barbary Corsairs destroyed the village of Vila Nova de Milfontes, taking away the inhabitants, condemned to a life of slavery. There is a reason there are so few old settlements along this coast, and that reason was piracy.When I look at a landscape, I tie it to my imagination and what I know from history, archaeology, and reading. Sometimes, this is unconscious thought, ideas and ghosts of stories flickering across my mind; at other times I deliberately wonder what the young Alex would see if transplanted to this place and time. He would undoubtedly have read the tales of the pirates and made up fables of his own. There are deep caves here, tunnels from the mines which date back many centuries. Now, they are important for the local bats but, perhaps, young Alex would have been convinced some contained pirate treasure. He would definitely have climbed up and down the crumbling cliffs, leaping across fissures here, ignoring the drop and possibility of injury, flush with the fearlessness of the young and invincible.When I inhale the scent of the early morning, watering the plants on the small balcony, catching the familiar salty tendrils on the breeze, I am reminded of other early mornings near the sea. I still recall the first time I awoke in Stromness, the way the air tasted utterly different from what was then called South Humberside. It left a deep sense of magic, which has not faded with time.The sea is within me, in a way almost impossible to describe for those who did not grow beside her, have never sampled her moods and tasted her fury, and this creeps into my writing.Eventually, everything does.FinallyIf you can afford to, there are currently two direct ways to support my work here. The first is to take out a paid subscription.The second...
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    6 mins
  • Witness Notes 5

    Witness Notes 5
    Jan 27 2026
    (After you have read these introductory paragraphs once, you can skip to the new/old content here. If you are listening, then the time stamp is around the two minute 45 second mark.)IntroductionThe word settled, to me, carries connotations I am keen to avoid. I have never felt settled or, perhaps, I cannot recall a time I felt settled. I do not feel settled now, writing this, and I’ve lived in the same house for three and a half years. Without even discussing the obvious issues of colonisation, I just don’t feel like I could, or should, settle; better to keep my constituent parts shook up, agitated perhaps, rather than separating and stagnant.Instead, I feel as though I have been travelling for years, maybe because I have not lived in my ‘home’ nation of Scotland for eight and a half years, perhaps because I know I won’t stay here forever, or maybe because I carry that concept of home in a way which differs from many?More precisely, I still think of myself as a slow traveller, globally feral. Recently, I have been revisiting places through the photographs and words I recorded when my feet crossed their soil. This is a way of reminding myself of where I have been, not just in space and time, but in mind, too. It is a wonderful thing, to come out of a low and rediscover myself through words I crafted, through the lens of a camera, when memory has wandered in the fog for too long. Thank you, past me.When I first started sharing letters with the world in this fashion, six or more years ago, I usually began them with a vignette of where I was, a sort-of travel diary, mixed with nature observation, locking in the setting for the reader, before I spoke of other things—and, by so doing, ensuring that place fed into the whole. It was a useful device, for reader and myself both but, as these letters were sent to so few readers, and now languish archived behind a paywall, I thought it a shame not to share these snippets again.As such, I am going to share a short series of these sketches, accompanied by a photograph from that time, sent to you in date order.I shall include the above paragraphs in each of the letters in this series, but I shall also include a link at the very start, so you can skip ahead once you are familiar with the above words. If you are listening and similarly want to skip, then the timestamp you want to navigate to will be in the same place.Taken without these paragraphs, each is a short read, and I hope you enjoy them.Cercal, Alentejo, Portugal. April 2020My local world is bounded by windmills. Round hilltop towers, now shorn of their sails, some falling back to nature, others repurposed into circular homes. Many of the taller hilltops near this village are capped with a windmill, their curves juxtaposing with the angles of the distant line of pylons stepping southward in great cable-linked, invasive metallic strides.Throughout the day, from the first light until the last, these stunted sentinels act as giant sundials, barometers against the azure or beneath the grey, sometimes vanishing for hours at a time, only to reappear in evening brilliance, all between us bejewelled by fresh spring rain and the low angle of the sun.I live beside ancient hills, just where the flat plain rises to my back, to the south, the east and, for a short distance, the west. The dawn is swift and the sun stays in the sky, no cover once the day breaks. The dusk, however, is the opposite, a ballet of light and shadow, as the sun slips behind a hill, to usher in night, only to suddenly reappear, before repeating this dance, forest-clad hills skirted, and the patchwork of fields and white of the buildings lit again.Throughout the evening, the windmills are points in this play, bright pinnacles, gnomon, casting long fingers of shadow. As the sun moves into hiding I swear the world begins to whisper, only to regain its voice as the daylight returns once more; birds sing, dogs bark, the sheep reassure one another, as a wave of technicolor rolls towards my position, at a speed which serves to reminds me how fast our planet spins, making me feel a little dizzy.I wonder whether the missing sails once cast corkscrewing shadows of their own. Whether they were broad and slow enough to add to this marvel, or whether the miller had always locked them by the time the sun was setting. I wonder who else gazed from this village to this interplay of light and dark, what they thought at the end of a long day in the fields, or working with the local iron. You can find slag from the smelting here, dating back to the time of the Romans, or earlier, when the Miróbrigenses spoke the now long-extinct Tartessian. Names, an alphabet, lumps of melted rock, all surviving long after their makers are dust.All those days spinning into years, those years into centuries and millennia, time adding layers to this place, sunset after sunset, no two ever alike. The windmills watch, as do I, one day both to return to dust, as the hills ...
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    6 mins
  • Witness Notes 4

    Witness Notes 4
    Jan 20 2026
    (After you have read these introductory paragraphs once, you can skip to the new/old content here. If you are listening, then the time stamp is around the two minute 45 second mark.)IntroductionThe word settled, to me, carries connotations I am keen to avoid. I have never felt settled or, perhaps, I cannot recall a time I felt settled. I do not feel settled now, writing this, and I’ve lived in the same house for three and a half years. Without even discussing the obvious issues of colonisation, I just don’t feel like I could, or should, settle; better to keep my constituent parts shook up, agitated perhaps, rather than separating and stagnant.Instead, I feel as though I have been travelling for years, maybe because I have not lived in my ‘home’ nation of Scotland for eight and a half years, perhaps because I know I won’t stay here forever, or maybe because I carry that concept of home in a way which differs from many?More precisely, I still think of myself as a slow traveller, globally feral. Recently, I have been revisiting places through the photographs and words I recorded when my feet crossed their soil. This is a way of reminding myself of where I have been, not just in space and time, but in mind, too. It is a wonderful thing, to come out of a low and rediscover myself through words I crafted, through the lens of a camera, when memory has wandered in the fog for too long. Thank you, past me.When I first started sharing letters with the world in this fashion, six or more years ago, I usually began them with a vignette of where I was, a sort-of travel diary, mixed with nature observation, locking in the setting for the reader, before I spoke of other things—and, by so doing, ensuring that place fed into the whole. It was a useful device, for reader and myself both but, as these letters were sent to so few readers, and now languish archived behind a paywall, I thought it a shame not to share these snippets again.As such, I am going to share a short series of these sketches, accompanied by a photograph from that time, sent to you in date order.I shall include the above paragraphs in each of the letters in this series, but I shall also include a link at the very start, so you can skip ahead once you are familiar with the above words. If you are listening and similarly want to skip, then the timestamp you want to navigate to will be in the same place.Taken without these paragraphs, each is a short read, and I hope you enjoy them.Cercal, Alentejo, Portugal. April 2020Outside the window, the world warms, stories of life everywhere.Swirls of storks climb invisible spirals. Beneath, strata of swallows manoeuvre, twist, brake and snatch, manoeuvre, twist, brake and snatch. Lower still, plummeting sparrows, falling from our eaves to the orange grove below, a constant squabble. Beyond the storks rises a bird of prey, perhaps a buzzard, perhaps something else, I do not have my binoculars to confirm and the angle is off. Three crows mob and give chase, an explosion of collared doves below, flashing from thicket to thicket. Earlier, two ravens headed west, scaring the same doves and a brace of wood pigeon, a cycle which continues throughout the day.The shepherd is moving the sheep from the field with the olives to the one with the holm oak shade. His dog, at this distance, could be a hunting wolf. Further, a field of brown and well-fed cattle move along the edge in single file, a solitary dark horse in the field between, geese, chickens, and vegetable gardens closer still. Dusty tree-lined trails mark boundaries, arteries to the wilder places beyond this village.Here, the trees and bushes are mostly green, with the others in blossom or still awaiting their moment, to burst into leaf once more. This is a reversal from the land I grew up within, where the verdancy of holly or ivy was welcome in the winter, whilst all else slept, drained of colour, a monochrome hibernation. The cork oaks, the oranges and lemons, the satsumas, the eucalyptus, the holm oaks and others I am still trying to identify: this is a rolling land of green winters and blue, blue, azul skies. It is a land of surprisingly cold winds and reassuringly warm sun, sudden dawn and swift sunset, a land chiming with the church bell, toll unchanged through centuries. Sleek cats cross the village on terracotta clay tiles, a highway in the sky, a stratum of their own. Below, the dogs bark at their scent and the ink shadow of a returning stork brushes across shining paper-white walls, today’s approach to the nest directly parallel to our kitchen window.The local Grandmothers hush the dogs, shoo the hens and sit for a spell, short woollen cloaks over their shoulders, sun seeping into leathery tanned skin, heating old bones, mimicking the lizards in the grass. Warmed, they move fast, determined: sweeping, hanging laundry, cooking on braziers, moving heavy wooden furniture outside to clean. Another pause and an animated discussion with neighbours...
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    7 mins
  • Witness Notes 3

    Witness Notes 3
    Jan 13 2026
    (After you have read these introductory paragraphs once, you can skip to the new/old content here. If you are listening, then the time stamp is around the two minute 45 second mark.)IntroductionThe word settled, to me, carries connotations I am keen to avoid. I have never felt settled or, perhaps, I cannot recall a time I felt settled. I do not feel settled now, writing this, and I’ve lived in the same house for three and a half years. Without even discussing the obvious issues of colonisation, I just don’t feel like I could, or should, settle; better to keep my constituent parts shook up, agitated perhaps, rather than separating and stagnant.Instead, I feel as though I have been travelling for years, maybe because I have not lived in my ‘home’ nation of Scotland for eight and a half years, perhaps because I know I won’t stay here forever, or maybe because I carry that concept of home in a way which differs from many?More precisely, I still think of myself as a slow traveller, globally feral. Recently, I have been revisiting places through the photographs and words I recorded when my feet crossed their soil. This is a way of reminding myself of where I have been, not just in space and time, but in mind, too. It is a wonderful thing, to come out of a low and rediscover myself through words I crafted, through the lens of a camera, when memory has wandered in the fog for too long. Thank you, past me.When I first started sharing letters with the world in this fashion, six or more years ago, I usually began them with a vignette of where I was, a sort-of travel diary, mixed with nature observation, locking in the setting for the reader, before I spoke of other things—and, by so doing, ensuring that place fed into the whole. It was a useful device, for reader and myself both but, as these letters were sent to so few readers, and now languish archived behind a paywall, I thought it a shame not to share these snippets again.As such, I am going to share a short series of these sketches, accompanied by a photograph from that time, sent to you in date order.I shall include the above paragraphs in each of the letters in this series, but I shall also include a link at the very start, so you can skip ahead once you are familiar with the above words. If you are listening and similarly want to skip, then the timestamp you want to navigate to will be in the same place.Taken without these paragraphs, each is a short read, and I hope you enjoy them.Vila Nova de Milfontes, Alentejo, Portugal. February 2020In the last ten days, I have been joined by old friends: the salt-tang of the ocean carried on powerful, iodine-strong winds, the sun a force, capable of burning quickly, the roar of waves an ancient lullaby. The nights are cool, the days warm, the land surprisingly green and already covered in flowers; flashes and banks of yellow, pebble-dash of pinks and reds. Here, farmers are already harvesting and baling grass, there a shepherd tends sheep or goats.Citrus splashes cover verdant small trees, oranges and clementines dotted everywhere, often fallen and rolled, ditches and dips full of gathered sweet balls, unclaimed, rotting. Lemons are equally common, sometimes almost too large to be believed, their yellow so obvious it is a colour of its very own.Bamboo tracks the waterways, here and there giant stacks have been collected, bundles of canes to be used later in Spring. The cork oak trunks are a spectrum, darkest where they have most recently been peeled, lighter where time has passed and a new cover awaits silently, to seal the wine or port of many miles of vineyards.I am learning this language, the language of a landscape that feels ancient and lived-in—how fields are maintained, how there is space for nature above the terraces, in between settlements, or on the long coastal edge. Portugal feels full of stories; old stories and new, whispers of tales to come. It is into this land that we venture, seeking a home, filling in the gaps in our knowledge. The land whispers back, tells us what we need to hear, and we listen.FinallyIf you can afford to, there are currently two direct ways to support my work here. The first is to take out a paid subscription and, as it is the midwinter (or midsummer) season and to celebrate six years of sharing this letter, I’m offering 20% off both monthly and annual subscription plans. If you subscribe at that price, it will lock in for the rest of your subscription, for as long as you remain a subscriber. I shall be raising my subscription fees slightly in the new year, so taking advantage of this might make sense. The offer ends mid-January, 2026.The second way to support me here is to use my Kofi button/link to send a tip of any amount. If you enjoyed this letter and wish to share it with others, please do so! I love it when someone shares my work.I also love it when you comment on a piece—really, really love it. During 2025, I have not been as good at responding to ...
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    6 mins
  • Witness Notes 2

    Witness Notes 2
    Jan 6 2026
    (After you have read these introductory paragraphs once, you can skip to the new/old content here. If you are listening, then the time stamp is around the two minute 45 second mark.)IntroductionThe word settled, to me, carries connotations I am keen to avoid. I have never felt settled or, perhaps, I cannot recall a time I felt settled. I do not feel settled now, writing this, and I’ve lived in the same house for three and a half years. The Crow's Nest is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.Without even discussing the obvious issues of colonisation, I just don’t feel like I could, or should, settle; better to keep my constituent parts shook up, agitated perhaps, rather than separating and stagnant.Instead, I feel as though I have been travelling for years, maybe because I have not lived in my ‘home’ nation of Scotland for eight and a half years, perhaps because I know I won’t stay here forever, or maybe because I carry that concept of home in a way which differs from many?More precisely, I still think of myself as a slow traveller, globally feral. Recently, I have been revisiting places through the photographs and words I recorded when my feet crossed their soil. This is a way of reminding myself of where I have been, not just in space and time, but in mind, too. It is a wonderful thing, to come out of a low and rediscover myself through words I crafted, through the lens of a camera, when memory has wandered in the fog for too long. Thank you, past me.When I first started sharing letters with the world in this fashion, six or more years ago, I usually began them with a vignette of where I was, a sort-of travel diary, mixed with nature observation, locking in the setting for the reader, before I spoke of other things—and, by so doing, ensuring that place fed into the whole. It was a useful device, for reader and myself both but, as these letters were sent to so few readers, and now languish archived behind a paywall, I thought it a shame not to share these snippets again.As such, I am going to share a short series of these sketches, accompanied by a photograph from that time, sent to you in date order.I shall include the above paragraphs in each of the letters in this series, but I shall also include a link at the very start, so you can skip ahead once you are familiar with the above words. If you are listening and similarly want to skip, then the timestamp you want to navigate to will be in the same place.Taken without these paragraphs, each is a short read, and I hope you enjoy them.The Alps, Isère, France. January 2020The silence of snow is thick and cushioned, the light diffused, reflected, refracted, contradictory. Twigs, branches and trunks are blanketed on one side only, crystal-white creating contrast, highlighting their twisting shapes, calling out their identity to those who know their coded winter pattern.The sky is gunmetal and thick, brown at the edges, rusting clouds silently slipping lower throughout the day, with occasional tickles of flakes tessellating where they fall.Here and there are the traces of those who have already passed, footsteps telling tales we trackers delight in—this the nursery of tracking, as with wet sand, the details are beautiful, each trail a story clearly written. We can take these and learn, understand where to look in spring or summer, how the animal moves to avoid a fallen tree, or to step over—or on—a branch. Whispers of a past, with another living thing at their end.The mountains are a place I adore. Here, in the Alps, the seasons are constantly changing, each major quarter of the year broken down into smaller bites. Winter woodland snows are a delight, something magical, always carrying a hint of Narnia.If a lamppost had appeared along the trail I followed, I would not have been surprised.FinallyIf you can afford to, there are currently two direct ways to support my work here. The first is to take out a paid subscription and, as it is the midwinter (or midsummer) season and to celebrate six years of sharing this letter, I’m offering 20% off both monthly and annual subscription plans. If you subscribe at that price, it will lock in for the rest of your subscription, for as long as you remain a subscriber. I shall be raising my subscription fees slightly in the new year, so taking advantage of this might make sense. The offer ends mid-January, 2026.The second way to support me here is to use my Kofi button/link to send a tip of any amount. If you enjoyed this letter and wish to share it with others, please do so! I love it when someone shares my work.I also love it when you comment on a piece—really, really love it. During 2025, I have not been as good at responding to comments as quickly as I would like but, seeing as my word of the year for 2026 is almost certainly going to be ‘communication’, I like to think that will soon change. Finally, many thanks...
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    5 mins
  • Witness Notes 1

    Witness Notes 1
    Dec 30 2025
    (After you have read these introductory paragraphs once, you can skip to the new/old content here. If you are listening, then the time stamp is around the two minute 45 second mark.)IntroductionThe word settled, to me, carries connotations I am keen to avoid. I have never felt settled or, perhaps, I cannot recall a time I felt settled. I do not feel settled now, writing this, and I’ve lived in the same house for three and a half years. The Crow's Nest is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.Without even discussing the obvious issues of colonisation, I just don’t feel like I could, or should, settle; better to keep my constituent parts shook up, agitated perhaps, rather than separating and stagnant.Instead, I feel as though I have been travelling for years, maybe because I have not lived in my ‘home’ nation of Scotland for eight and a half years, perhaps because I know I won’t stay here forever, or maybe because I carry that concept of home in a way which differs from many?More precisely, I still think of myself as a slow traveller, globally feral. Recently, I have been revisiting places through the photographs and words I recorded when my feet crossed their soil. This is a way of reminding myself of where I have been, not just in space and time, but in mind, too. It is a wonderful thing, to come out of a low and rediscover myself through words I crafted, through the lens of a camera, when memory has wandered in the fog for too long. Thank you, past me.When I first started sharing letters with the world in this fashion, six or more years ago, I usually began them with a vignette of where I was, a sort-of travel diary, mixed with nature observation, locking in the setting for the reader, before I spoke of other things—and, by so doing, ensuring that place fed into the whole. It was a useful device, for reader and myself both but, as these letters were sent to so few readers, and now languish archived behind a paywall, I thought it a shame not to share these snippets again.As such, I am going to share a short series of these sketches, accompanied by a photograph from that time, sent to you in date order, beginning with the second oldest. I shall include the above paragraphs in each of the letters in this series, but I shall also include a link at the very start, so you can skip ahead once you are familiar with the above words. If you are listening and similarly want to skip, then the timestamp you want to navigate to will be in the same place.Taken without these paragraphs, each is a short read, and I hope you enjoy them.Wick, Caithness, Scotland. December 2019Here, in the town at the end of the world, where the railway and road run out of room and the sea has a beginning, the light is always magically special. This is the land of skies and seas, of wind and weather. The clouds here are a language of their own, telling stories as old as the very air itself. At this time of year, the sun barely manages to pull herself above the long line of the horizon—she is tired and needs her sleep after seemingly-endless bright summer parties when she provides enough daylight to read outside all the night through.Skeins of geese and swirls of starlings are flung into the air, decorations of constant movement, reminders that not all sleeps in the winter. Occasional hen harriers, merlin, and short-eared owls fly low, using the land as cover, the river to guide their passage. The waters of the sea themselves are a blue so subtle as to be almost silver, or perhaps grey, then they are azure for but a moment, before another wave carries them along a spectrum of cold, colours of perfect pastel clarity.This icy winter sea is, like all waters, a mystery—cloaked and ready to change at no notice at all. The storms in this corner of the world can be legendary, ripping away an entire beach and depositing it elsewhere, wrecking ships year in, year out, bringing secrets from the deep and hiding others in their place. It is good to be back in the north, good to be reminded all life is in flux, change is constant and change is good. We merely ride the wind, we do not control the steed.FinallyIf you can afford to, there are currently two direct ways to support my work here. The first is to take out a paid subscription and, as it is the midwinter (or midsummer) season and to celebrate six years of sharing this letter, I’m offering 20% off both monthly and annual subscription plans. If you subscribe at that price, it will lock in for the rest of your subscription, for as long as you remain a subscriber. I shall be raising my subscription fees slightly in the new year, so taking advantage of this might make sense. The offer ends mid-January, 2026.The second way to support me here is to use my Kofi button/link to send a tip of any amount. If you enjoyed this letter and wish to share it with others, please do so! I love it when someone shares ...
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    8 mins
  • Some Midwinter Gifts

    Some Midwinter Gifts
    Dec 21 2025
    As I send this, it is precisely midwinter, here in the northern hemisphere at least. Summer feels a long time ago.However, despite the darkness, midwinter has always been a time of light, a time of warmth, and a time of celebration. The sunlight is about to return, as we sneakily pilfer it from our friends in the south, a few minutes here, a few minutes there, day by day, slowly—so slow they barely notice. Sorry, friends.In our little valley on the side of our mountain, direct sunlight has been blocked by the mountains and hills for weeks now. There is still daylight, of course and, when the sun does arise from behind those ridges to the east, it can still be felt, warm on the face but, for the last two weeks or so, when it disappears behind the big peak at lunchtime, it no longer appears on the other side, instead illuminating a hair-thin line of cornicing on the snow, a teasing montane tracery of potential and temptation. The snow is brighter on the other side of the mountain.This is the dark time when, to see the sun for all but an hour or so a day, I have to look to every other side of the valley but ours. To feel it would involve a long walk and, seeing as the river valley is oft wreathed in thick mist, a climb too.When I was peedie in Orkney and, later, when I was larger, in Caithness, the sunlight at midwinter carried little to no warmth. She is watery and pale, exhausted by the constant late-night parties of summer, barely capable of dragging herself above the horizon—a horizon frequently obscured by cloud and approaching weather systems, spun out across the Atlantic.I appreciate the sun, she is a gift to me. She always has been. Sunlight in a blue sky, even in midwinter, tingles through me. When the snow arrives and the sun reflects, I feel dizzy with the simple, pure joy of daylight. I do not take that for granted.You may already have seen my somewhat epic post about six years of sharing a letter, mostly on Substack? In this, I mention that I am offering a discount on both monthly and annual subscriptions, 20% off, for as long as you stay subscribed. This offer will run until mid-January—the 18th, to be precise. It is a sort-of gift but, of course, you still have to pay.Actual Free Gift (s)Therefore, I thought I’d send another gift your way—one for which you do not have to pay, not a penny.For a limited amount of time (yet to be determined, but probably until the end of January, 2026), you can read each and every chapter of each and every novelette, novella and novel I have shared here on Substack.In total, this is 140k words, more or less. For free.I shared these stories with subscribers as weekly chapters, also for free, then paywalled the stories after a time, when the next was due to be shared. As such, most of these stories have only been available to a fraction of my subscribers and followers.It being midwinter, a cosy time to curl up with a book—or six—I thought I’d offer you the chance to have a read.If you enjoy fantasy fiction and, especially, darker fantasy fiction—there are no merry singing elves here, no happy hobbits, just characters who feel real, who have real struggles (along with some very unreal struggles), and who are not trying to be heroes or kings, just live their lives as best they can, without being killed or, in some cases, eaten—then you might enjoy these tales.This is what I said about the series on my Fiction page.This is not Grimdark—there is hope here—but it is certainly on the darker end of the spectrum. And a quick glimpse at the titles might give you an inkling that there is a lot of death…I have six stories—whether novelettes, novellas, or novels—which I have crafted in this sequence, with a further pair drafted. Once these are complete, I shall be working on a longer trilogy featuring many of the characters and locations introduced in these tales. In short, consider the Tales of The Lesser Evil a very long prologue.(I do seem to enjoy slipping sneaky secrets into these letters, so here’s another—I’ve already begun work on that trilogy, just a little, but the idea is growing teeth, it is sharpening its claws and, soon, I am sure, it will start to devour me.)The fiction page I link to above also includes a brief backcover blurb for each book, with links, and each book has its own introduction and navigation page, as well as quick links to the next chapter embedded within every post.As I mention, this is a limited time offer—in 2026 I shall be releasing these books in print and digital form, something I talked about before, when I said this:Self-published books live and die by the algorithmic small gods. And the ambrosia of these gods is reviews.In that letter, I talked about how important reviews are for a writer, especially for sales. I asked if anyone would like to receive an advance reader copy of the ebook I shall be publishing next year, in exchange for leaving a review on Amazon (and no, I do not like the platform, ...
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    7 mins
  • Un Frère In Time

    Un Frère In Time
    Dec 17 2025
    I recently shared the final part of A Fall In Time with those of you who are subscribed to that section; this was the day-by-day and week-by-week communion with nature I was lucky enough to experience back in 2010—there shall be more to come on A Fall In Time, next year. If you are new, or have no idea what I am talking about, essentially I left my job, my friends and family, and headed out into the woods. The introduction page, here, tells you more and also includes a linked list of the contents of this adventure.Today, I am delighted to share this piece, crafted by my sister, Lydia Crow, who was also the key element of my remote support team back in 2010 (actually, she pretty much was the support team!), along with being the editor of the original blog posts I shared with the world about that time (being my editor is a role she excels at, not afraid to disagree or point out where something is either lacking or is over-embellished).I shared this last year but, as it now has a new voiceover from Lydia herself, I thought it worth sharing with all of you again. Also, I like it.When Lyd originally said she would write this piece, I did not know what to expect, but I did know it would be worth reading. And I was right.Un Frère In TimeIt’s strange thinking back to the people we were over fourteen years ago, when Alex first told me about his idea to head off to spend some time in nature on his own on the west coast of Scotland. I can’t remember the details of all the conversations now, but I do know that I thought it was a great idea from the very beginning. Alex needed to make a change, to do something different. It might not be obvious from Alex’s updates how much of a change this was from his way of life before. He was living in Sheffield, with a broad circle of friends and (occasionally rotating) housemates, and had a conventionally active social life. The August before Alex left, we’d been to the Fringe in Edinburgh and seen several shows, including Smoke and Mirrors, featuring iOTA, in the Spiegeltent. Life wasn’t boring, but I could also tell it was missing something for Alex. A key piece of the jigsaw.I mention this, because I think it is important. We all have these times in our lives when we know we need to make a change. It might seem superficially small, it might include physically walking away from civilisation (or “civilisation”) for a few months—but we know deep inside that it represents an important turning point, after which we’ll never quite be the same. The decision, once made, is accompanied by an increasing sense of urgency, an all-encompassing clarity, that drives us on. And, though we often try to explain the significance of such events, we will inevitably fall short, because it is our turning point, nobody else’s.Yet, by bringing everyone into his personal story in the way in which he has done, Alex has managed to at least scratch the surface of explaining this significance. It’s not that people can or will—or even should—have the same experiences, it is that we should all be encouraged to consider what it is that might act as that turning point for us, should we need one.The weeks running up to Alex’s departure were full of planning. For a start, Alex needed somewhere to store all his belongings, so they were delivered to my house. It was quite amusing going through some of them—a desire for minimalism doesn’t run in our family. His worldly possessions ranged from items from our childhood (including some of Alex’s early hand-drawn maps, which called for a daft photo-op), to glass scientific instruments, to books. Books, books, books. My role as Custodian of Arcane Knowledge had officially begun (and continues to this day, as what will eventually be my dining room is still full of Alex’s boxes).As is evident from Alex’s writing, we kept in touch via mobile regularly, usually messages rather than calls. I had set up a literary website the year before, and Alex was one of the regular contributors. Writing a series under the name “Vague Wanderings”, Alex shared his experiences throughout his time on the west coast. There were several people following along—friends, family, and others we didn’t know. Alex also shared other, separate updates under the title “Vague Preoccupations”, but these (along with nearly all other content) has long since been archived on the site. I don’t have access to the messages we sent during that time (though they’re possibly on an old hard drive somewhere), but I can see when Alex switched to emailing me the images of his handwritten Moleskine notebooks with his next post (as it took much longer to send picture messages than emails). I would transcribe these posts, then message back to check any words I couldn’t quite read. Several hundred miles away, Alex would carry his notebook with him to where he could get signal to check and answer my queries the next day or so.I have the emails back and forth ...
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    15 mins